grooming for black mass – Zach Dansie

October 26, 2025

Gomes and Moore chug a lug from plastic water bottles. Soon they’ll take their sp2. When they picked it up the pharmacist said a prayer in his head and avoided eye contact, in a good way. Likewise Gomes and Moore were saying their prayers. Please god. Thank you lord. Er rather fuck you god. Eat shit in hell piece of shit lord of fucking piss nothing get fucked asshole. Et voila they got their stuff. Thank you Satan says the more devout one. Thank you Satan!

I’m going to look completely skeletal says Moore. He flexes his arms and chest under his underwear.
You’re anorexic says Gomes, who feels the texture of the muscles and the veins, enthralled, then he swats Moore in the face and runs away. You little jerk! says Moore. He chases Gomes around the little apartment but he gets tired quick so Gomes lets him throw the both of them to the ground.

Moore and Gomes have gotten to be close friends the last five months—powers beyond their control threaten to disrupt their companionship in a few weeks. There’s a disproportionate amount between the two of regret and disappointment and dread about it.

What about we kill ourselves says Moore we kill ourselves together. Yes sure keep going says Gomes. You can just say you hate it. I don’t know explain yourself. Could suck but I think it would be amazing. Why or no why would it be amazing. Why not. Could be this totally horrible waste. Don’t you want to be there after. I guess, but that isn’t the point. Yeah sure maybe it would depend how we do it probably. Lots of blood. Cut some arteries but that would hurt. I would want a lot of hurt. Why that’s why I’m there.

When Moore was in first grade he wanted to dive pens pencils glue sticks crayons colored pencils markers scissors staplers fingernails pinkies thumbs pointers shoelaceheads fists into his but not his blue and white eyes and to see if not feel blood erupt out of what was a tranquil cloud to get an in between of life and death that he felt when he was young choking on spaghetti and meatballs and sneezing out the noodles from his nose and Dad claps the shit out of his back come on buddy come on buddy his dad said stomping on him like whacking him with a tree branch but lovingly of course Moore’s dad loved him Moore’s mom loved him and Moore didn’t know what to do with that felt good to be cared for and something cooling relaxing happifying about this constant this unvarying care and devotion and entangling of course he didn’t see it like that at first he didn’t think of it until he saw people who were only vaguely tangled up in their parents and often in a horrible horrible unseemly traumatizing way like the client and and the client’s wife and then their kids Moore thought about it their kids he couldn’t suppress the certainty that it would all be better if the client died because the client is not getting better from his ways the client could not get better even if the client did get better it would be different from what he needs the client and his wife and the client and his kids could never be like Moore and Moore’s mom and Moore and Moore’s dad the entanglements that constituted some consistency and substance to Moore’s psychological background while still letting some shadow remain that is the shadow of Moore hurting people though “the shadow” is a stupid characterizer it makes it a mystery when it wasnt when Moore took his BB gun and he shot the cat in the stomach and then in the back and then in the face it wasn’t a mystery and the pain he felt wasn’t a mystery and his spankings were real and linearly composed with relation to the shots pew pew into the soft and fur pew pew into the soft and fur pew pew in the gelatinous the ridges unridging retiding like his back like his butt would be resurfaced by the belt like the back of his eyes and the joint between his brain and his sinuses and the insides of his ears would dry out completely like god unleashing the flood to kill humankind but the complete opposite.

This is the point for what they do what they’re going to do this is why they pray to the other guy and get blessings from the other guy: God is evil, God hurts people, God is an asshole, God doesn’t give a fuck, God lets someone die but then brings someone back to life and that’s supposed to be cool and there’s an empty room that is losing breaths traces of gestures skin flakes while another room fills up with more than its fair share like this was a smart idea a good plan but it’s not it’s wretched and ghastly usually, and that that’s just one thing, there’s more, could talk about this forever, everyone is obsessed with God everyone loves God and they do too and it’s frustrating to talk about God and it’s amusing to talk about God like God sees them and he sees their husband see them raped and battered and choked in the ears voice whipping sharp chains across their stupid idiot idiot heart just watching is that piece of shit asshole fuck thanks God fuck you God, goes on and on like this how bad it is, felt it all, feels it all, but nothing to be done about it, to totally empathize and understand it all and still act wrongly is God, no pride no happiness no euphony no bride no brindle no hoar no end of mimicry philand up to the top with all that all possible no end in sight, God says if they do it right then they’ll be with me and they’ll never be away, fuck no fuck.

When they’re ready again in nice suit and tie they wait on the couch, relaxed some, but not enough, anxious again, they wait for a little later than desired, on the couch, awaiting for it when the phone rings. With the right person. Ring ring ring. Moore has phone privileges and he answers. This is Moore. Uh oh. Nino. Nino. Nino. Nino relax. Nino Costa is extremely upset. They need to come and help his mom. She’s not responsive he says in his little kid voice his mom’s accent. Moore loves this kid. “Not responsive”. When he hears the hurt it’s like Moore writhes in between his legs has he made the right decision. Okay don’t worry, says Moore, we’re coming.